


Vengeful Fingers

by Yuval25



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Biting, Boys In Love, Brothers, Diners, Hot, Humor, Incest, John is oblivious, Kinkchesters, Kinky Dean Winchester, Kinky Sam, Kissing, Love, M/M, Payback, Revenge, Rimming, Semi-Public Fingering, Teasing, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, oh my
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 13:52:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11014746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuval25/pseuds/Yuval25
Summary: This may or may not be the stupidest thing Dean has ever done. No, wait, this is without question the stupidest thing Dean has ever done. Might be the stupidest thing anyone's ever done. On a global scale. That includes aliens.John looks at them suspiciously, eyes narrowed and mouth pulled into a tight, grim line. "Pay attention, boys," he scolds."Yes, sir," Dean gives a small nod.Behind the cover of Sam's back, Dean's fingers keep working into his little brother relentlessly.





	Vengeful Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> Aww I've been waiting for a whole _week_ to post this. A WEEK, can you believe it? But I had to edit and then I added a few things and then I had to edit _again_ and... well, here it is.  
>  Shameless wincest smut, part fingers, part revenge.  
> The only thing that could make me feel better right now is to see your reviews! :) :)  
> Enjoy!

John looks at them suspiciously, eyes narrowed and mouth pulled into a tight, grim line. "Pay attention, boys," he scolds, sharp eyes settling on Dean's then Sam's faces, reading into their expressions. Their very fake, very realistic-looking expressions of extreme attentiveness.

"Yes, sir," Dean gives a small nod to strengthen his meaning, pushing his shoulder into Sam's back and making the kid jerk forward with a gasp, his hazel eyes widening as he chokes on his milkshake. Dean holds back the smirk as Sam echoes his 'Yes, sir' through his sputtering.

John nods.

Behind the cover of Sam's back, Dean's fingers keep working into his little brother relentlessly.

This may or may not be the stupidest thing Dean has ever done. No, wait, this _is_ without question the stupidest thing Dean has ever done. Might be the stupidest thing _anyone's_ ever done. On a global scale. That includes aliens.

They're at one of those order-at-the-counter-and-collect-it-yourself kind of places, where the overpriced rent has taken its toll on décor and human resources in the form of splintering, creaky wooden chairs, no-longer-very-cushioned cushioned booth benches – they have been lucky to score one of those instead of the splinter-splinter-little-chair deals, even if the shockingly red cushions _are_ kind of ugly – and understandable lack of waiters, since there are not even enough people in this tiny little spot of a town – camp, gathering, one-house-and-a-chapel? – to man the place. Or woman it. Even the chap operating the antique cash register doesn't look local. If a total sum of about three people can be categorized as _local_. Like there's even enough of a place to _be local_ at.

Dean bides his time, ignores pointed, jabbing elbows from Sam and soft little stifled moans Sam muffles with the glass of strawberry milkshake. Eventually, John sighs and quits pointing at the mess of papers he'd spread all over the slightly sticky tabletop.

"I'm gonna get us some grub, whadduya want?" he asks them, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger and looking like he could use a cup of coffee or ten.

"Whatever you're getting'," Dean answers, easy as pie, and, hey, that's an idea. "Pie for enders', yeah?"

John grunts an affirmative, and raises his head to look expectantly at Sammy, who swallows thickly – he's not taken a sip, Dean notices smugly – a couple of times before answering. "I would like a salad."

John rolls his eyes, but doesn't argue – he must be more tired than Dean had realized – instead he turns away from them and crosses the diner to the cashier dude who looks about two seconds from falling asleep.

"Dean, knock it off," Sam hisses as soon as John's out of earshot, voice breathless and mouth wide open in panting.

"I dunno, man. I'm kinda havin' a great time, here," Dean teases, flexing his fingers for emphasis.

Sam's voice breaks on a groan and Dean repeats the action, the stream of _awesome hot Sammy baby so good blush so pretty perfect_ he doesn't let past his lips getting louder inside his head like someone had just turned the volume up.

Sam squirms and flushes, mouth going slack and eyelids dropping a little when Dean starts stroking the two fingers he's got firmly rammed inside his brother up and down, caressing the soft, velvety skin with his rough finger pads. Dean's eyes track John across the diner, speaking to the register guy, probably placing their order.

He both sees and feels Sam jump about a foot in the air, knobby knees knocking against the underside of the table, when he grazes his blunt fingernails down Sam's inner walls. Sam crams half his own fist into his mouth and bites down, but Dean still catches the whine that escapes his throat and smirks.

"Again, Dee," Sam whispers, his floppy hair falling into his eyes. Dean should probably cut it for him, but he finds himself unable to grab the scissors and trim those brown locks every time he gets the chance to do that, remembering how much Sammy likes having his hair pulled, how much _Dean_ likes how messy it gets when he's got Sam pinned under him and he's pounding into the hot, sweaty curve of his brother with so much force that he actually pushes Sam's quivering body up the bed with each thrust.

Dean does it again, pushing his fingers higher, deeper, to cover as much land as possible as he curls them just right and starts pulling them out of Sam, painfully slow, fingernails dragging across the sensitive flesh as Sam bites his lip and exhales a stuttering breath.

Dean continues to play with Sam's ass until John returns, a tray in each hand and a disgruntled scowl that is usually followed by either a snap or the silent treatment. Dean's hoping for the latter, although the first one does have the advantage of John storming off afterwards and leaving Dean and Sam enough time for two-to-three rounds of uninterrupted fun-time, at least.

Sam hurriedly pushes the papers scattered across the table to one side of the table, gathering them in neat piles, unconsciously grinding down on Dean's explorative fingers and keeping his eyes down. Dean bites the inside of his cheek to avoid snickering like he's just heard a dirty joke – Sam is dirty, alright, fucking filthy when he wants to be, sometimes even when he doesn't even try to be, but Dean is more likely to tackle him to the floor and take him raw at this point than burst out laughing, though that, too, has been known to happen every so often – and stuffs a fry into his mouth with the hand that is not buried knuckle-deep inside his little brother.

"What's gotten into you, boys?" John grumbles, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood as Sam's hands snatch the milkshake to mask his cough behind his drink. "Get your heads straight, this is a hunt!"

"Sorry," Dean has no idea how he manages to keep an even tone and a straight face, but he does.

Sam doesn't.

"Yes-s-" he coughs again raspingly, inhaling loudly as Dean starts scissoring his fingers ruthlessly, stretching as far as he can. "-sir."

John's not even looking at them. He's got his eyes on a creasy piece of torn-off old newspaper article, finger tracing the letters as his other hand brings forkfuls upon forkfuls of corn-speckled-white-rice to his openly chewing mouth. And he wonders why Dean and Sam grew up to be such savages.

It's only because of John's distractedness that Dean risks moving his wrist a bit more, gathering enough momentum to jam his fingers into Sam more forcefully, Sam jerks and shudders. Not one of those subtle shudders, either. A full-body shudder.

John raises his eyes and frowns at Dean's little brother.

"B-brain f-f-freeze," Sam stammers, hands gripping the glass of milkshake almost hard enough to break it. Dean's feeling a tad apprehensive but that feeling quickly diminishes when John seems to accept Sam's bluff and returns to his paper-reading.

Sam only picks at his salad, so Dean spins their joined tray so Sam can pick at the more calorie-laden French fries from his plate, instead. Sam doesn't seem to notice the switch from crisp-fresh to crisp-fried, though, because he keeps shifting the food across the plate, occasionally bringing a fry to his lips and nibbling at it. Dean thinks it's got a lot to do with how hard he's fucking Sam with his fingers now, the change in posture as he leans into Sam's space to snatch a fry or two allowing him more leeway and bolder wrist-movements.

They finish their food in silence – apart from a few not-entirely-suppressed sounds from Sam – and when John puts his empty cup of coffee back down on the table with a resolute clank, Dean counts that as their cue to leave.

He drags his fingers slowly out of Sam, prodding at the fluttering, swollen hole a couple of times for good measure, and wipes his hand discretely on the inside of Sam's underwear – if Sam had any capacity of forming a lucid thought, he would have been mortified and probably slap Dean's bicep sharply enough to leave a gigantic, bright red handprint – before slipping it out from under Sam and into his jacket pocket, making a mental note to avoid touching any part of John and John's with that hand unless there's a life or death situation. Maybe not even then.

Sam groans out a bitchy, " _Dean_ ," under his breath, but gets up at Dean's non-too-gentle nudging, standing on shaky legs and trying not to let his front be visible from any angle, lest someone catches sight of the woody he's sporting.

"Later, Sammy," Dean retorts back with a wink, getting Sam's trademark eye-roll in response.

In the car, Dean rides shotgun and Sam tries not to squirm in the back with every bump the Impala hits. Dean finds it endlessly amusing.

"It's gonna be a long ride, boys. You might wanna catch a wink," John informs them as he pulls onto the interstate.

Sam's face morphs into something so tragic Dean actually feels a speck of sympathy for the kid. All turned on and teased, forced to endure hours in an enclosed space with the source of his sexual frustration as well as his own father. Must be torture.

Dean looks back over his shoulder and shoots his little brother a smirk that fully expresses his smugness over the situation.

Sam glares at him through floppy bangs and huffs in irritation.

Yeah, Dean's an awesome big brother.

 

Dean should have known it would all come bite him in the ass someday. Literally, because Sam's a kinky bitch and likes to leave teeth imprints on every available space on Dean's body. Of course, Dean has rules about those, too. Rule. One rule. No bite marks where Dad can see. So there.

"Fuck, Sammy, let up," Dean groans as Sam finds that extra sensitive spot – one of many – on the inside of Dean's thigh. Sam lets up, but it takes him a couple of seconds, and Dean curses internally. He should have never let Sam see just how much Dean likes it when Sam takes him just this bit much further, bites with just a little bit more force, extends the pain just a little bit longer than Dean can handle. It's one of Dean's sick pleasures – one of many, since getting off on the fact that it's his brother he's fucking is not exactly what one would call normal or healthy. "Bitey bitch."

Sam hums as he rubs his cheeks over Dean's ass, before nuzzling under. Dean jerks, muscles pulling impossibly tenser when he feels Sam's teeth graze his balls.

"Sam," he says warningly.

Dean feels the slick wet warmth of Sam's tongue flicker over his sack, before his little brother's lips close over it, sucking lightly. Dean gradually relaxes into the ministrations, pleasure rolling over him in waves as Sam licks and sucks on his skin.

"C'mon, Sammy," Dean urges, pushing his ass back so Sam's nose shoves into the crack, seeking stimulation. "C'mon, baby."

Sam complies, and Dean gasps when smooth, slick tongue starts breeching him in tiny thrusts. He spreads his thighs further, giving Sammy room to shuffle closer between them, and Sam puts both of his palms on Dean's cheeks to spread them so he could spear his tongue deeper into Dean.

Dean muffles his moan by burying his head in the pillow, his fingers digging into the springy mattress as his toes curl and release on either side of Sam's waist.

A few minutes later, Dean is breathing hard into the pillow, unable to stifle his soft moans and deep growls and filthy stream of _yeah baby boy fuck me with your tongue giving it to me so good_ as Sam moans into Dean's ass like he's the one getting licked open.

Just when Dean thinks he's going to come, half-way through reaching down with one hand to pull at his painfully hard cock, Sam suddenly springs from the bed, his tongue leaving Dean's hole clenching and fluttering and _fuck_ , so empty.

"Didn't Dad say to be ready for travel by four o'clock?" Sam asks hurriedly, throwing on his clothes – that's Dean's shirt, the little shit – and zipping his duffle shut after shoving the bottle of lube he'd taken out of it earlier – and hadn't used, the little _fuck_ – as deep into it as he possibly can – as opposed to his cock in Dean's ass, _the little bitch_ – and looking at Dean with something fierce and bitchy shining in his eyes.

"No, it was six," Dean corrects him, remembering what Sam had said when Dean had stepped out of the shower earlier. _'Dad just called. We're supposed to be packed up and ready to go by six PM.'_

Oh.

_THE LITTLE–_

"Revenge!" Sam cries, pumping one fist in the air and yelping when Dean growls and pounces, managing to evade Dean's grabby hands and the fate of doom only because Dean hasn't had a fully functioning brain in at least ten minutes and his movements are hindered by the ache in his unfilled asshole.

"You're gonna get it, Sammy!" Dean snarls after him as the kid shuts himself in the tiny motel bathroom, leaving Dean to mourn his un-fucked-ness as he pulls on his boxers, jeans and shirt regretfully.

"At least one of us will!" Sam shouts back, cheeky as hell and so, so in trouble when Dean finally gets his hands on him.

Revenge, indeed.


End file.
